What A Fool I've Been
by firearms57
Summary: Feyre decides it's time to talk to Azriel about a certain someone he's had his eye on for centuries. Mor x Azriel. Moriel. One-shot.


Feyre watched Azriel discreetly from the corner of her eye. She'd been doing so for the past hour and a half, and Rhys felt it necessary to voice his opinion. "Are you going to stare at him forever? I'm right here you know. This eye candy is much easier to feast on." He pointedly ran a sensual hand down the bond. Feyre grinned wickedly, but didn't feel it necessary to grace him with her gaze.

"Jealous?" And his mate, the vixen, stroked their connection with all the passion used in their foreplay, and he'd be damned before he admitted that it affected him at all. Rhys cleared his suddenly dry throat and tried to empty his mind of other thoughts in order to stop the silent mocking laughter of his mate. "Why are you looking at him anyway. What's he got that I don't?"

"Well, bigger wings for one. And you know what that means."

He ran a finger down Feyre's own wings, and to her credit, she didn't budge, though he still felt her attention shift. "Yes, but what I lack in size I make up for in pure ego, ego that is well-founded. And you know that means."

Feyre batted his hand away. "Not now.I'm busy."

"Doing what?" he asked again.

"Watching Azriel."

As if he could hear his name, the shadowsinger turned his attention to Feyre, or rather, what was behind Feyre. Cassian, dressed in his classic fighting leathers, was asking Mor, clad in a great sweeping gown, to dance. Of course, Cassian was mocking a certain nobleman who'd been entranced with Mor's bodily gifts, even going so far as to kiss Mor's hand and bow before her. His eye-level was coincidentally on the same plane as her chest, and he bugged his eyes out in a fairly accurate depiction of the noble. Amren snorted and made some comment that had Mor snickering behind her hand.

They were currently in the old house Feyre had huddled away in after learning Rhys was her mate, the hospitality of the place made known by the constant refilling of their wine glasses. It was as if the house had a mind of its own, and Amren had certainly never rejected the idea.

Azriel's jaw tightened when Mor took Cassian's hand, turning his head in the other direction.

Feyre leaned into Rhys, hissing in his ear, "Did you see that?"

Rhys was staring at his spymaster with a look of utter shock plastered on his face. "Yes."

"Well then," she peeled herself off of her mate, cracking her knuckles. "That proves my point."

"What point?"

"That it's time to play matchmaker."

#

Azriel was still brooding by the wall when Feyre grabbed his scarred hand and dragged him towards the door. Azriel didn't offer any reaction besides a muffled grunt of surprise. Feyre was more than happy to ignore the shadowsinger and keep her attentive scowl focused on Amren and her suggestive eyebrows. Mor simply gave her a worried look before turning back to her conversation with Cassian. Rhys waved to her from over the rim of his glass and went to join Amren where she lay spread-eagle on the table.

Once outside, Azriel questioned where they were going. Feyre ignored him, calling on the dark power that swirled in her breast. Time slowed as she and Azriel entered the blackness. Exiting the tunnel, Feyre blinked, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. The sun glinted artfully off the glassy surface of the sidra river. Slashes of color marked where flowers had begun to blossom. Small animals flitted across the grassy bank and into their respective hollows. The painting came unbidden. Cobalt to match the water, white for the clouds, red and pink the flowers. She could imagine the picture in vivid detail, all down to the sharp blades of grass. The image was a cruel irony to the truth. The warm season was coming, an end to the haze of frost and snow. With winter's end came the heavy flooding. NShe wasn't particularly worried about the floods, what with her ability to winnowThe snow's melting was a sudden and terrible thing, many would fall to death if large settlements were built on the banks.

Azriel's head was turned away from hers, scaning the area with a piercing intensity. She cut back a comment about how uptight he was and how he needed to get out more and jumped straight to the point. "Why are you avoiding Mor?"

Az blinked. Confusion flitted across his stony features before quickly being replaced with the impassive mask. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are," she demanded, folding her arms to match his pose. Have been for five hundred years actually."

Azriel's hazel eyes flashed in a rare show of anger. Most would quail at that sign of emotion—when the dam broke, a raging ocean was released, built up from centuries of festering rage—but Feyre was unafraid. She knew how much pressure could build behind a mask like that and how much it needed to be released. She'd seen it in Nesta, in Rhys. Azriel was no different, except his anger was not vengeful, only bitter. "Do not put yourself where you do not belong," he said quietly, and she marveled at his restraint. Of course, she snorted, he'd been honing that skill with Mor.

"I've done that quite a lot of times," Feyre retorted. "And I'm just smart enough to see that intervention is necessary in this case. I mean, really. You guys have been giving each other bedroom eyes for five hundred years, and still neither of you do anything. I can't decide whether I should be impressed at your control, or your stupidity."

Azriel's body was wound tight as a bowstring. He looked just about ready to let the water break free, but then...a long exhale of breath, and he was back to calm and collected. "Feyre." His voice was consoling. "This...situation...between Mor and me, it's not that simple. She is the Morrigan, the teller of truth, the savior of those in the dark." His eyes took on a faraway look, his tone becoming reverent. "She is loved by the people, makes an impact on all those she meets. She is happy where she is, untainted. Perfect," he whispered the last part. Disgust schooled his features. "And I...I am this." He gestured cruelly at the whole of him, dark hair, spiteful hazel eyes, rustling Illyrian wings. "A bastard, battered and broken from birth, dropped in the fighting grounds to train. And for what? To kill? I am coveted by those of other courts for my abilities, to sense what others cannot, yet none of those High Lords would care to see what I truly am. A monster." He looked away from her then, voice sharp and resentful. "At least Rhys was able to find someone."

Feyre's face had softened as she tenderly took Azriel's siphon-clad hands in her own. "Oh, Az. Why didn't you tell anyone how you felt? You're no monster."

"Because no one should deserve the burdens of one such as me."

"How could you say that?" she wondered, voice so aghast that Azriel looked back at her. "Why do you think Rhys chose you to be part of his inner circle? He once told me a secret. He said those who were part of his court didn't need things like power or skill in battle, but compassion and virtue. He said, without those qualities, he does not believe that anyone would be willing or able to protect Velaris. We've always thought you our friend, Az, if only you weren't so closed off. Believe me when I say this, more than one I've asked have admitted that they wish you were more open. We all want to be close to you, Az, but only if you want us to be."

Silver lined the shadowsinger's eyes, but he blinked it away. "What does this have to do with Mor?" he asked hoarsely.

Feyre let out an impatient sigh. Apparently heartwarming speeches didn't wear away the mulishness of an Illyrian. "It means that you are worthy of her, and you need to stop being a spoiled princess and grow up! You think you are protecting her from your stain by staying away, but you only hurt her more when you do that."

He seemed to take the words as a physical blow, taking a step back with a dazed look in his face. "You think I...hurt her?"

"Yes! More than you know. It's all hidden behind smiles and laughs, but the pain's there."

Azriel looked broken, face torn in internal struggle. Without any excuses he turned his line of attack on Feyre. "Why me?" he said almost desperately. "Why don't you talk to Mor about this?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Multiple times. And it turns out the problem is not her, but you. She won't say it outright, but I know she loves you. I notice the little things she does, the skimpy dresses, the smiles, the subtle touches she thinks you're unaware of, always trying to get your attention. But you're just so...apathetic all the time. I think she believes you really don't care."

"But I do," Azriel said softly.

"Yes, but that's not how it comes off, Azriel," Feyre said testily. "She once told me that she could peel her dress off in front of you and you wouldn't move an inch. Though," she grinned wryly, "that's not how it seems to me."

"No," his eyes darkened. "If she ever did that, I most certainly would move. Far, far away."

"Ah-ha!" Feyre pointed at him accusingly. "I got you! After all that, you'd still avoid her. For no good reason."

Azriel struggled to come up with a retort but could find none. For the first time in his life, his mask failed him. A haunted, vulnerable look crossed his features and...stayed. Feyre's heart ached for the spymaster. For all her cruel words, she didn't want to hurt him. She was unsure what to do. Never had Azriel shown any significant sign of weakness, but then she couldn't really blame him with all the torment he'd been through. "Azriel," she said quietly. "It's okay if you're scared."

He let out a quivering breath. "I am. Terrified."  
He'd been running from his feelings for so long, to have them all come crashing down on his head, it must've been overwhelming. Feyre suddenly felt guilty. "I was scared too, at first. It's why I avoided Rhys for so long. I didn't know what it would be like to have such a strong connection with somebody, not when I'd barely had any friends in my life. More, I was scared of him, of Rhys. I didn't want it to change our relationship, and I worried that maybe he'd reject me. But it turns out he loved me just as much as I loved him. That's just how the mating bond works, I guess." She shrugged. "Have you felt it yet? The bond, I mean." She meant it as a joke, some way of lightening the mood.

"Yes," he breathed. "So long ago…" "What?" Feyre asked, surprised. "When?"

"When I brought her here. It was so sudden, I almost dropped her. But then, I felt her. Not just touching her skin while flying home, but inside too. I could feel her pain and it nearly broke me. That was the worst day of my life."

"Are you saying you and Mor have been mates for all the time you've been avoiding each other? And you both know it?"

Azriel nodded sagely.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" Feyre threw up her hands in exasperation.

"I—"

"No, you be quiet! In fact, just stay right here. I doubt I can trust you not to run her." She winnowed back to the house, grumbling about Illyrian males and their ineptivity to do anything requiring half a brain.

#

Getting Mor away from the part was a bit harder. Especially since she actually resisted. "No!" she yelled, yanking her arm from Feyre's. "Tell me where we're going first."

Feyre spread her midnight wings and said darkly, "Just come with me. It'll be over in a second."

Rhys and Cassian were wisely staying as far away from the fight as possible. Amren, watching from Cassian's chair, said, "Don't make me come down there."

Both Feyre and Mor turned their glares on the mysterious faerie and said simultaneously, "Shut up, Amren."

They went back to tussling, Feyre coming out on top with Mor pinned beneath her knee. Her hair had come out of its braid, messy and in disarray. Both females had scratches and signs of wear, but fortunately neither had died. "Mor, if you try to run away again, I swear I won't hesitate to burn your hair off."

"What?" Mor squawked indignantly. "What did I do?" "Resist arrest," Feyre grinned wickedly, and they disappeared.

#

Azriel was feeling most uncomfortable. Feyre's words had stirred thoughts and memories that had been crammed into the deepest recesses of his mind, left to dust and rot, but never disappear. Those thoughts had murmured slightly whenever exposed to Mor, but they'd never rose to the surface like they did now.  
 _You love her. You can't love her. You're worthless. Worthless. A bastard. You should die—_

Azriel shook his head but the thoughts still plagued him. He shifted his weight and leaned against the nameless tree he'd decided to call pine. Once, when he was a young stripling, fresh from the nest, he'd been fascinated by things like that. The names of trees, animals, everything natural and untainted by the touch of man or Fae.

He'd been a walking encyclopedia, filled with youthful wonder and knowledge about everything. But those dreams had been torn from him as soon as he'd been crammed in the prison cell that was his childhood bedroom, replaced instead with hunger pangs and the vicious need to fly. The shadows drew around him unconsciously, caressing, embracing, warm and comforting. For so long they had been his only friend. What would it be like, he wondered, to share his life with another? With Mor?

He shuddered inside, both out of fear and anticipation. For he knew that was where Feyre had gone. To find the one who haunted his dreams. As if answering his summons, the air in front of him shivered. Feyre appeared, dragging a struggling Mor behind her. Like every other time, she stole his breath away. Her hair shone as honey in the sunlight, the fluid planes of her face illuminated in golden rays. Azriel's gaze slid completely over the slight scuffs and bruises on her face, seeing only _Mor_.

Anxiety twisted his gut as Feyre pulled Mor to her feet and shoved her towards Azriel. She stumbled, and Azriel could not find it in himself to reprimand Feyre as he gently caught hold of her. Regaining her balance, Mor hurriedly stepped back a few paces, her face flushing slightly. The shadows cried mournfully at the loss of contact.

Azriel turned to see Feyre's smug smile. He scowled back. "Mor," she addressed her friend. "Azriel has something he'd like to tell you." At the shadowsinger's silence, she continued with a slight edge, "Don't you, Azriel?"

Still silence. "Well, I'll just leave you two here then. Rhys is calling." Feyre waggled her fingers playfully and vanished. They stood awkwardly. It was the first time they were truly alone without Cassian in quite a long while. Sure, they'd been in each other's company, but always with others to knead out the tension, and even if by some chance they happened upon a moment of solitude, it was always to discuss war tactics or the preparations of an important ceremony. It was never like this, with nothing but their own untamed thoughts for company.

"Care to tell me why Feyre dragged us from the party? It's awfully humid and my hair does awful things in this type of weather." Mor broke the silence with a joke, of course with negative connotation toward herself. It was what they'd been doing for years. Humor was safe, general, impersonal. It was when that humor turned to teasing that it became dangerous territory.

Azriel had the decency to chuckle, but his throat was tight and strained. He was too distracted to keep up his walls. Her blonde locks fell across her beautiful face, framing her features. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering, but wander they did, across her chest, stomach, legs. And he hated himself for it, hated himself for looking at her like that, like he had the right to.

"Az," Mor murmured, and it was so hard not to watch her lips as they moved. "I hate when you do that."

Azriel closed his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry—"

"That's not what I meant," she cut in sharply. "I—" she blushed. "I'm perfectly fine with that. But I hate when you think those things about yourself." Mor stepped closer to him, close enough that the shadows began their gurgle again. "You're not worthless, Az. Azriel, look at me."

So he did, because he couldn't deny her anything.

"Can't you see yourself the way we all do? You're loyal and kind and caring and the best friend I've ever had." His heart stumbled to hear her say those things about him, him, the one who'd slaughtered and murdered without mercy, and perhaps someone out there thought that of him, but not—

"It's not a lie," she said bluntly. Then she laughed. "It's funny that you'd even come to that conclusion, me being the teller of truth and all."

But, she was right, She was the Morrigan, and she told the truth. "Mor," his voice cracked on her name, that gorgeous name. "I want so badly for this to work, but it's not that simple—it can't be that simple—"

"But it is," she told him softly. "I've been waiting so long, Az. Centuries." _Centuries. She'd been waiting centuries. For him_. "I've never pushed you, and I've given you a chance, but now...Please, just give me an answer. Tell me if this is what you want. If you want me."

She was holding back her tears, he could see, and it killed him that he was the cause of them. "Of course I do. But is it really what you want? I'm nothing, Mor. No titles, no riches. What have I to give you?"

"Do you think me so vain that all I want is power?" Injured disbelief laced her words, another stab at his wounded heart. He'd hurt her, but she came closer anyway, their chests nearly touching. "No," he whispered, heart thundering against his rib cage.

"All I want is you, Az."

He felt thick and clumsy with her so near, her scent wreathing around him, more addictive than any drug. His hands, itching for something to do, to pull her closer, remained stubbornly at his sides.

Mor raised her own hand, so small and delicate, to touch his face, then dropped it. Azriel kept the disappointment from showing.

"Stop that!" Mor's reprimand was so at odds with their previously hushed tones that Azriel flinched. "Stop hiding," she said, quieter, all gentleness once again. "Show me who you really are, Az, Stop hiding."

That broke his restraint, already so frayed in her presence. He pulled her even closer, brushing his lips against hers oh-so gently. He was still so careful, so hesitant to do something wrong, Mor almost smiled. She put her arms around his broad shoulders and finally, finally, brushed a finger down that dust-bound bond, hidden so deep under the clutter and mess of her other thoughts.

Azriel broke the kiss, a deep shudder racking his body. "Mor," he groaned. "Please, just…"

"Hmm?" She nuzzled against his chest, breathing in the essence that was him.

"Just—I need to do this slowly," he got out, heart stuttering when he realized what he'd just done. But the fear was muted this time, dulled by her nearness and the bond's humming energy.

"Okay," she answered immediately, no trace of spite or regret in her tone. She wanted to do this however made him comfortable, and slow would certainly be nice for a change. "Can I...do that again?" he asked tentatively.

"What?" Mor hid her smile against his breastplate, wanting to tease him.

"Kiss you."

She huffed an "Alright, fine" and placed her lips on his. She stroked the bond, gently, lovingly, trying to ease his fears. It only served to send more jitters down his spine, though no consternation came with it. It was a good kind of tingling, a feeling of euphoria that Azriel had never experienced before. He allowed his hands to move to her hips, tenderly, loathe to push Mor into something she might regret.

Mor pulled away to look at him, smiling radiantly. Azriel couldn't help but smile back, the expression pulling unused muscles painfully. Mor's breath caught when she looked at him. How could he think himself inadequate in any way?

Azriel marveled at the way she gazed at him, so much like...how he gazed at her. Three words. Three words he wanted to say, with such a desperate yearning then, that he could barely breathe. Mor felt his longing, his sudden pull of emotion, and she fixed him with a stare so full of understanding and compassion that he could tell—

 _I know, Az_. The warm caress of her voice in his head sent a pleasant chill up his spine. Could you ever feel the same? His touch on the bond was light and almost nonexistent, just a feather falling upon her consciousness. She laughed, low and melodious. "Of course." She looked up at him. "I already do."

And just like that, he was falling. His pulse quickened as he lost himself in her honey-brown eyes.

"What a fool I've been," he said huskily. "I'm sorry, Mor." And that apology, it was for everything, all the hurt he'd caused her by ignoring her, all the hurt he'd caused himself by ignoring her. "It's alright, Az." She rested against him, his warm embrace, and soothed the shadowsinger's agony.

#

Feyre sipped her wine, watching two silent forms slip quietly through the mess and ruckus of the house. They were holding hands and pressed as close together as possible. The door's barely audible click was a the final key falling into place.

"Well, I'll be damned," Rhys muttered.

Feyre took another swig of wine and grinned smugly. "Told you."


End file.
